No Dialogue
by Streetlight Person
Summary: A few hours in the postRENT lives of Mark and Roger. Movie or musical, whichever you prefer. Mark regrets a verbal slip and watches its consequences affect Roger. Sort of an ode to a difficult but important friendship.


AUTHOR'S NOTE. So, I went lost-soul-Word-Document sifting, and I stumbled across this. I apparently wrote it in February, although I have no recollection of my train of thought while scribbling these sentences. It's less dark than my last posted RENT piece, (White-Washed Walls), and a little more Mark-centric. More dialogue… although exposition seems to clearly find it's way between every sentence. XD. As with my last piece, my motto is "Time frames: Who needs 'em?" and "I'd care more about this problem if it were not almost three AM." I guess I mostly posted this because a) it's been a while, and b) being as I had written this is February, I did not remember how much the end reminded me of my own best friend. And so, I dedicate this to all best friends everywhere. Enjoy!

FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION. This is NOT MarkRoger or RogerMark or MarkCamera or RogerGuitar. This is purely a friendship fic between all four parties.

DISCLAIMER. I don't own RENT, I rent.

* * *

"I'm in!" 

Roger's voice rang loudly throughout the cold loft, startling a dark figure in the corner from his work.

"Christ."

Another role of film damaged; the third role today that Mark let his shaking fingers destroy. They've gone without heat for almost a week now, and it was just about, nay, absolutely unbearable.

"What the hell are you so happy about? It's fucking twenty below zero in here, I can't feel any of my vital appendages, my projector's going to freeze in position pretty soon..."

Roger was already by the window, amp plugged in, numb fingers strumming a G chord, A chord, whatever chord, anything to add some background noise besides the constant honking, shouting, banging, dinging, singing, stupid sounds the people of Alphabet City choose to make at five o'clock in the evening on a perfectly frozen Tuesday night in December.

"Whoa now, you're starting to sound like me."

Mark scoffed, turning around to try and revive his latest twenty seconds of pigeons in the park, a project he's only devoted about half of his artistic skill to. In truth, he hates pigeons. But if stock footage of greasy, filth-ridden varmints will earn him enough money for a box of Cap'n Crunch every two weeks, it was worth it. Mark had suggested that Roger find a job, any job, because after all, he would like some milk with his cereal. Roger denied, saying that the only money he's ever going to make is from being on stage, and until then, he's not lowering himself to a menial, Mickey D's employment just so Mark can have soggy Cap'n Crunch. Alas, that was last week, and even rock stars have to build strong bones.

"So, find anything today?"

Roger silently shook his head and Mark sighed.

"Damn it, Mark. It's the 1990s now, no one will take you without a high school degree. I couldn't fill out half the applications even if I tried."

"Well," Mark muttered, "who's fault is that?"

"Hey, I was gonna be a musician. No degree required. If I would have known that..." Roger stopped mid-sentence. Mark didn't have to look at his friend to see what expression he bore - he could see it in his head. He knew. "...well, I'm not working at McDonald's, alright?"

Mark laughed.

"Okay, okay. But the next time I hear you complain about lack of food, I'm personally kicking your ass all the way to the front of the line so that when they say, 'Hi, welcome to McDonald's! How can I help you?' you can reply with a grin on your face, 'Hey, I'm Roger Michael Davis and I am a twenty-five year old high school dropout with long hair, green eyes, a guitar, and AIDS.'"

An uncomfortable silence passed between the two, Mark's voice reverberating in his own head along with, "stupid stupid stupid", and he finally looks up to see Roger tuning his Fender on the window sill. His face is grave, his eyes intense.

"Look..." Mark started, but Roger raised his hand, cutting Mark off entirely.

"I don't care, Mark. It's been what, five years? We can joke..."

But his friend wasn't dense. His tone was passive, but there was so much more behind those placid words of fake reassurance. Mark was always better at fake reassurances anyway. _Guilt._ No space for apology. The mood was sour. Sure, Roger's been fighting AIDS for almost six years, but he was starting to lose the battle. In a private conference, the doctor told Mark that he would not live see next Christmas. Christmas of 1993. No space for apology.

"Take your AZT."

Roger silently stood and walked over to the cabinet, guitar hanging over his back, thanks to the new black guitar strap Mark had gotten him for his last birthday. He watched as Roger downed the recommended dosage dry, and stood there idly after he was done. Mark watched everything, as Roger's hands became fists and were raised up to his temples. He watched as they made a fierce contact with the counter, sending a booming echo throughout the loft. Mark knew what was going through his friends head, for it was he, himself, who probably passed the thought on to Roger.

"Hey, it's okay..." Mark said quietly, his eyes as unmoving as the dark figure a few feet away from him.

"No, Mark. It's not okay." His spoke softly, the words like gravel pouring out of a cement truck - slow and thick - and it was unlike him. "It never has been. And it never will be."

He walked over to the window sill and sat down once more, guitar in hands, and strummed quiet chords. No action of Roger's ever came as a surprise to Mark anymore, and he was a professional when it came to dealing with every single one. This was going to be one of those days where Mark would leave Roger to sleep in his thoughts, and they wouldn't talk for hours. Finally, around what would be dinner time if they actually had food, a conversation would be struck up out of nowhere, and it would be as if nothing had ever happened. And perhaps, Mark figured, nothing had happened. Nothing began, nothing ended. Nothing started, nothing resolved. A simple one-sided confrontation between Roger and his feelings. There were some days, albeit, where Roger would talk to Mark about what was bothering him, but today was not one of those days. Mark could tell - they didn't have Cap'n Crunch this morning. Roger never opens up on an empty stomach.

-

It was now dusk and Roger had been outside on the fire escape for the past four hours. Mark wasn't worried, but when he looked at his calendar anticipating drawing an "X" over the current day, he realized that it is December 17th. That's one week until Christmas Eve. One week and one year until Christmas Eve of 1993. One week and one year until...

Mark walked over to the window and hesitated before slowly opening it and stepping out onto the fire escape. Roger looked over at his friend and nodded in approval. Mark took a seat. He sighed, a gray puff of air forming and dissipating just as quickly into the cold, black night sky. Alphabet City isn't as bright as it normally is, and all of the sounds five floors below them seemed horribly muted - making every single syllable Mark rehearsed in his head seem ten times louder. A deep breath, booming across the city buildings...

"Roger?"

His friend remained silent for a moment, and then responded.

"I'm sorry, Mark..."

"What?" Mark was so surprised, he almost wished he had been filming this.

"I don't mean to shut you out, you know I don't."

"I know, Roger," But not anymore. "Trust me, I know." He smiled.

Roger glanced at Mark, his face as serious as anything, which quickly erased the friendly smirk from Mark's lips. Roger continued.

"But I mean, do you really?" He paused, took a breath. "I mean, I remember back when Maureen dumped you, and you were really shook up and all...but I was there for you...right?"

It was Mark's turn to pause. He knew what Roger was getting at, and it was in the entirely opposite direction of where he wanted to go. He considered the question, considered answering it truthfully, and then decided to get this over with.

"Yes, of course. We're best friends," Mark feigned surprise and befuddlement.

"I know we are, but Mark, you're the only one doing the 'best friend' part. I mean, you know? I'm not too great of a friend,"

"Don't say that...you are. You're the best friend I've ever had." The God's honest truth.

"Don't kid yourself." Roger laughed bitterly. Mark really didn't like this direction.

"Roger, stop." He turned to face him. "You've always been a good friend to me. And I've always been a good friend to you. It's give and take, Roger." _I'll lean on you and you'll lean on me and we'll be okay._ A line replayed itself in his head over and over and over.

"Then I can tell you anything?"

"When have you ever not been able to? I'm here for you."

"Mark, I'm scared shitless."

A beat.

"So am I."

Mark was unprepared for what Roger did next, but as he turned back to face the city and hide his tears, he felt a head rest on his shoulder. He didn't move, but he allowed warm, salty tears to cascade down his cheeks at whatever pace and frequency, because he knew that his best friend was feeling the same exact burning sensation in the back of his own eyes. They sat there for minutes, hours, days, years, connecting in the only way best friends know how, through no dialogue at all.

* * *

A/N. Thanks for reading! And please, let me know what you think! I love constructive criticism; heck, I can even take a flame or two. Thanks again! -A.


End file.
